


in restless dreams i walked alone (the sound of silence)

by august_embers



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, Geralt is trying his best, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jaskier is not okay sometimes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, No actual suicide attempt, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Yennefer has her own definition of helpful, major depressive disorder is a bitch and a half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22212874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/august_embers/pseuds/august_embers
Summary: "Geralt is able to scent the guilt on a lying man from ten feet away, to catch sight of half a pawprint in the undergrowth in the dead of night, to know when to lean back before the coming blade can cut through his throat.  Much of it comes from his training at Kaer Morhen, where his instincts were honed and enhanced, but even more comes from his travels and experiences while walking the Path.  Geralt notices things, because not noticing means death.He does not notice the lack of singing."Something is very wrong with Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 184
Kudos: 4179
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH





	1. Chapter 1

It takes three days for Geralt to realize something is wrong.

Being a Witcher means being observant by trade, because not being so gets one killed quickly and painfully. Geralt is able to scent the guilt on a lying man from ten feet away, to catch sight of half a pawprint in the undergrowth in the dead of night, to know when to lean back before the coming blade can cut through his throat. Much of it comes from his training at Kaer Morhen, where his instincts were honed and enhanced, but even more comes from his travels and experiences while walking the Path. Geralt notices things, because not noticing means death. 

He does not notice the lack of singing.

Jaskier has always been a lively travelling companion, Geralt will give him that. Jaskier doesn’t do silence, will say or sing any number of absurd things to avoid it, and while that makes him intensely irritating and often prompts Geralt to weigh the pros and cons of abandoning the bard in the middle of the night, Geralt has gotten used to a certain amount of vocalization in his travels. Witchers must be adaptable, after all.

Which is why it takes him by surprise to realize that Jaskier has not sang a single song, half composed or otherwise, in three days time.

Geralt watches Jaskier where he sits on the opposite side of their camp fire with a pensive look. Jaskier, had he been paying attention, would most certainly have called him out on his brooding and demanded to know what troubled the Witcher’s mind, but as it stands, Jaskier is occupied with tuning the strings of his lute, which suits Geralt just fine.

The bard plucks four notes in a row, then makes an unpleasant face and plays another four notes, only slightly different from the first set. The frustration is evident in the tightness of his arms and shoulders, which are usually so relaxed while he composes. Geralt frowns slightly.

“Did you finally run out of inspiration?” Geralt asks before he can stop himself.

Jaskier hums once and doesn’t look up from the strings, hesitantly strumming chords. “I’m trying to remember a song I used to know, but I can’t-“ his fingers hit what must be the wrong note because he cuts himself off with an “ah, dammit.”

Forgetting a song? That doesn’t sound like Jaskier. “A song you wrote?” Geralt questions, genuinely curious. Jaskier shakes his head.

“Something my mother used to sing to me when I was little,” Jaskier replies, uncharacteristically solemn. “She hummed it all the time, and I never knew the words but I swore it went like-” he strums a few chords and then immediately shakes his head. “No, not like that, but I thought…” Jaskier trails off, looking deep in thought, and hums something under his breath. Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t reply at all.

Jaskier idly fingers the strings for a few minutes before abruptly standing and tucking the instrument into its case. Geralt watches as he grabs his bedroll and spreads it out further back from the fire. The bard lays down without another word and curls onto his side, facing the forest. Geralt waits for the customary “goodnight Geralt” to come, but it doesn’t.

“Hmm.”

…

They arrive at the next village by midmorning. Word has been spread that a ghoul has been lurking by the edges of the forest, where an old burial ground is found. 60 crowns paid to the man that brings back its head. As jobs go it should be an easy one, which means a day or so for Roach to be properly boarded and taken care of. Sleeping in a bed will be nice too.

Geralt sends Jaskier to the inn to get them a set of rooms while Geralt settles Roach in the stables around back, paying the stable hand extra to ensure that she’s properly taken care of. He expects to see Jaskier scoping out the bar and possibly tuning his lute, but instead the bard is sitting at a table along the far wall with two plates of food and two mugs of ale.

“They only had one room available,” Jaskier says as Geralt sits and pulls the second plate towards him. The food looks plain but fresh. “One bed, but there’s plenty of space by the hearth. Can you believe it, Geralt? A fireplace, in our room! How long do you think it’s been since we’ve stayed somewhere this nice? Two months? Longer?”

It had been two and a half weeks since they’d stayed somewhere other than the wilderness, and almost four months since their rooms have been big enough for more than just a bed. “It’s been a while.” Geralt allows. He relaxes back into the booth and takes a long drink. The ale isn’t half bad.

“It’s been _forever_ ,” Jaskier corrects immediately, and a small smile tugs at Geralt’s lips.

Across the room, the barmaid sends Jaskier another curious and hopeful look. No doubt she’s spotted the lute case along the floor by Jaskier’s feet and is hoping for a performance to draw more patrons. 

“Are you going to play tonight? Looks like you’ve got some interested parties.” Geralt asks, and nods to the woman when Jaskier looks up in question. Strangely, the smile falls from the bard’s face as he looks towards the bar and then back to his lute case.

“Nah,” Jaskier says, clearly aiming for casual and not quite hitting it. “Tonight will be an early night, I think. I’d like to enjoy the small comforts of sleeping indoors while I can.”

That strikes faint alarm bells in Geralt’s head. Jaskier plays everywhere. No exception. He opens his mouth to ask if Jaskier is dying when the door to the inn swings open with more force than necessary, and Yennefer of Vengerberg strides in.

“Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Jaskier mutters lowly, “What is _she_ doing here? Unbelievable, things were just looking up, and now _this._ Excellent.”

Geralt ignores him in favor of making eye contact with Yennefer, who looks thrilled to see him. She turns and makes her way to their table, pushing one man when he doesn’t move fast enough for her liking.

The sound of a piece of metal hitting the table steals Geralt’s attention back to Jaskier, who is grabbing his lute and standing. “Looks like it’ll be an earlier night than I thought. There’s the room key, if you’ll even be needing it.”

“What-” Geralt starts reach out for Jaskier’s arm, but then Yennefer is there and Jaskier is halfway to the stairs.

“You’re here about the ghoul, aren’t you?” Yennefer asks as she drops down into Jaskier’s abandoned seat, and then frowns and glances in the direction that Jaskier himself had disappeared. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I was in the area and heard about the contract. It’s routine enough.” Geralt says, and ignores the second question because he feels like saying “he doesn’t like you” would be rude. “It’s good to see you, Yen. You look good.”

Yennefer’s face softens and she smiles, and Geralt is reminded of why he became drawn to her in the first place. If only they weren’t two cuts of the same cloth, they might’ve made a relationship work. “So do you. But you’re wrong about the ghoul.”

Geralt’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“I’ve been doing a bit of freelance work, and a farmer near the cemetery hired me to help his son in law. Seems the poor boy was in the wrong place at the wrong time and had a chunk of flesh taken from his calf for his troubles. Bite marks.”

Geralt frowns and hums. A ghoul doesn’t feed from living humans, not unless- “Ah, fuck. An alghoul.”

Yennefer beams, as if this is something to be pleased about. “No doubt about it.” She winks and starts to dig into the food Jaskier had abandoned, only half eaten. “Seeing as I’ve given you a very valuable piece of information, I think that entitles me to oh, say, half your earnings?”

That startles a short laugh out of Geralt. “Not a chance.”

Catching up with Yennefer is nice. Geralt misses her fire and wit when they go long stretches without meeting up, but the sun has long since set and the prospect of real sleep is enticing. Yennefer must be of the same mind, because an hour into their conversation, she yawns widely and makes her departure. Geralt doesn’t ask if he’ll see her again before she leaves.

Geralt expects Jaskier to have sprawled himself out in the single bed and left the floor for Geralt, but he is surprised to see that the opposite is the case. The bard has spread a mountain of extra blankets down on the warm floor by the fireplace and curled onto his side, facing the door. Geralt shuts the door softly behind him before the light of the hall can disturb Jaskier’s sleep and quietly undresses himself for bed.

Geralt lays in the darkness and tries not to think about Jaskier’s odd behaviors as he sinks into sleep. He fails.

…

Geralt would give almost anything for Yennefer to be wrong about the alghoul, but he knows better than to doubt her. Alghouls are twice as irritating as regular ghouls, but they have nothing on Jaskier.

“The whole _point_ of me tagging along is to _actually tag along_ and see the monster!” Jaskier protests angrily the next morning. Geralt ignores him and continues running a whet stone along the edges of his silver sword. “That was the deal! I follow along, write epic ballads about your battles to make you famous, and the both of us profit. _That’s the whole point!”_

“I never agreed to any of that,” Geralt feels the need to point out. Jaskier looks like he wants to throw something. Geralt arches an eyebrow as if to say “try it”.

“Don’t be rude. How am I supposed to draw inspiration when you won’t let me see the battle?” The bard demands. Geralt sighs and slides his sword into its sheath, satisfied with the sharpness of the edge. 

“I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”

Jaskier scoffs and crosses his arms. “You’re an absolutely awful storyteller, Geralt. Your idea of a story would be ‘I found the beast and removed its head. The end.’ That isn’t a story, it’s boring, and nothing worth putting to song. If I don’t go, the world may never hear the tale of Geralt of Rivia versus the man-eating alghoul.” 

“And what a shame that would be,” Geralt deadpans. He straps his sword on his back and prepares to leave. “You’re not going, Jaskier. The end.”

Jaskier steps in front of him before he can reach the door. “If you won’t take me with you I’ll just follow when you’re not looking.”

The only reason Geralt doesn’t immediately give into his anger is because the idea of Jaskier being able to follow him undetected is laughable, but the bard is pushing it. “Get out of the way.” Jaskier opens his mouth to argue and Geralt snaps, “ _Now,_ Jaskier.”

Jaskier doesn’t move. He gulps and Geralt hears his heart start to beat faster, but he doesn’t move. “I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. Yesterday you had no problem with me going! It’s still just a ghoul, albeit a bit bigger than-”

Geralt has his hand twisted in the back of Jaskier’s shirt before the bard can blink, and he roughly shakes him. “You’re not going because you can’t protect yourself. You’ve never wielded a blade in your life, and I cannot waste my time looking after you to make sure you’re not eaten. That makes you a liability. Alghouls are twisted creatures that will have your flesh torn from your bones before you even know they’re there. Stay here, and do what you do best. Sing a song, or find someone to fuck. I don’t care.” Geralt shakes him once again, with less force, and ignores the feeling that sparks low in his belly at Jaskier’s wide eyes. “If I see you anywhere near that cemetery, I will make sure you live to regret it, I promise you that.”

There is silence for a long moment, but then Jaskier nods slightly and Geralt releases his hold on Jaskier’s shirt. The bard quickly steps out of the way and retreats further into the room without making eye contact. Geralt resists the urge to sigh heavily, hesitates briefly, and then leaves without looking back. Yelling at Jaskier never feels right, especially with him being so downtrodden lately, but Geralt also isn’t willing to let the idiot risk his life over song lyrics. He’ll just have to find a way to make it up to him somehow, maybe get back before it gets too late and offer the story over a few drinks. It won’t kill him to be a little descriptive.

…

Geralt does not get back early.

The damn thing is fucking fast. Geralt would have killed it three times over already if it hadn’t taken to rushing him and then running faster than he could follow. Even his enhanced sight is struggling in the forest. The trees are close together and a thick fog had rolled in just after sundown. With its pale flesh, the alghoul is almost invisible in the clutter.

A rustle sounds from behind him and to the left. Geralt brings his sword up and spins, connecting with the alghoul’s right arm and severing it below the elbow. It shrieks, and instead of running like Geralt expects, slashes out with its remaining arm and rips a gash down Geralt’s right shoulder. 

The Witcher grunts heavily but doesn’t drop his sword. Smelling the fresh blood is putting the alghoul into a frenzy; clearly done with running, it presses forward with an ear piercing scream as it tries to take a bite out of Geralt. It’s too close to swing his blade. Geralt slams his elbow into the creature’s distended, rotting gut, then kicks it square in the chest when it stumbles back.

It lands on its ass, and Geralt has its head a moment later.

The sun is coming up as Geralt trudges back into town with the alghoul’s head in a sack. People are beginning to stir, so Geralt doesn’t feel bad about knocking on the door to the mayor’s house for payment. The man is very grateful, and even throws in an extra 15 crowns when Geralt explains the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul, and how one is much worse than the other. He leaves feeling exhausted but satisfied.

Geralt has nearly made it back to the inn when a small shop catches his eye. Two minutes and 20 crowns later, he leaves with a small bundle and a sense of accomplishment.

Jaskier is dozing, still on the floor for some reason, when Geralt returns. He sits upright quickly at the sound of Geralt removing his armor and taking his sword off his back. “You’re back.”

Geralt grunts in reply and winces heavily as he manipulates his shoulder to remove the torn leather padding. The sleeve of the gray shirt beneath is soaked in blood and nearly ripped in two. As injuries go, Geralt has certainly had worse than a deep cut with clean edges, but it’ll be a bitch while it heals.

Jaskier makes a startled noise. “You’re hurt. Damn, I knew you would be, you were gone for a while. Here,” he rummages around in his bag and pulls out a smaller, newer bag that contains what look to be medical supplies. “Uh, shit, where’s the- oh, here. Okay, listen, I went to the apothecary yesterday and got this stuff, and the apothecarist’s wife showed me how to sew up a wound- well, I practiced on pig skin but how different can it be, really-”

“You did what?” Geralt asks, stunned. Jaskier pushes him to sit on the bed and takes a seat beside him, then starts rolling Geralt’s sleeve up and out of the way. 

Jaskier peers carefully at the wound and starts to wipe the blood away. He pinches the edges of the gash shut and hums. “Probably six stitches, maybe seven.” And then, to answer Geralt’s question, he adds, “I know that I’m not very helpful or useful while we’re out there. I know that. I’m not freakishly strong or fast like you are. But I can do something when you come back all bloody and hurt. Agnes, the apothecarist’s wife, she gave me a few lessons on first aid and emergency medicine, so I can stitch you up before you bleed all over everything.”

Geralt’s first instinct is to say, “You’re not useless,” but the words get stuck in his throat, so he swallows them and says the next thing to come to mind. “Where did you get the coin to pay for all this stuff?”

Jaskier shrugs and stares at the curved needle intently. “Played a few songs here and at the tavern down the road. I don’t have anything to numb the area, I’m afraid. That was a bit outside of my price range.”

“I’ll be fine without it,” Geralt assures him, then sets his teeth as the first prick of the needle pierces his skin. He watches Jaskier’s hands, which are remarkably steady. Jaskier doesn’t do very well with blood or gore. “Did you find your inspiration?”

“I didn’t perform any of my songs, only the more popular choices. Everyone wanted to hear The Fishmonger’s Daughter, and who am I to deny the people what they want?”

The tip of Jaskier’s tongue is just barely peeking out of his mouth and Geralt finds himself staring at it for longer than necessary. The bard’s features aren’t delicate, exactly, but… there is a certain softness to him that seems to have more to do with who he is as a person than his actual features. It’s been a while since Jaskier has tried to flirt with him, and Geralt suddenly realizes that he misses it. This Jaskier who doesn’t sing his own songs or sleep in a free bed and refers to himself as useless doesn’t sit right with Geralt. 

“I’ve got something for you,” Geralt says quietly. Jaskier glances up from his work and Geralt realizes that he’s still staring. He doesn’t look away.

Jaskier does, though, in favor of grabbing a small pair of scissors and cutting the excess thread dangling from Geralt’s shoulder. “Is it the riveting tale of how you slew the alghoul?”

Geralt snorts and reaches for the package he’d set on the floor with his armor. “Not exactly.” He unwraps the cloth from around the sheath of the dagger he’d spotted at the metalworking shop earlier that day. “Here.”

The grip is made of dark brown leather and the sheath the same. It isn’t anything fancy, but the edges of the steel glint in the light when Jaskier pulls it free to examine it. The blade only measures five inches; Geralt didn’t want to get something that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to wield. As it stands, he has a feeling he’s going to have a hard time getting Jaskier to practice with the one he’d purchased.

“You need to learn how to defend yourself.” The _in case I’m not there_ goes unsaid. “I don’t know how you’ve survived walking around unarmed all these years.”

Jaskier slides the dagger back into its sheath. “Thank you, Geralt.” He says sincerely, “I promise I’ll do my best not to stab you or myself with it.”

“Isn’t that why you got all the bandages and shit?” Geralt asks with a glint in his eye, and Jaskier laughs. It’s a relieving sound.

“If I’m going to stab you, I’m not going to throw away all that effort by stitching you up again.” Jaskier tells him seriously, then breaks into a grin. Geralt can’t help but smile a little back. Perhaps things are going to go back to normal between them, and whatever was bothering Jaskier will be forgotten. He figures they’re about due for some normalcy. 

Geralt starts smelling the blood soon after that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a two part story but the last half got away from me and it had to be split in half. The third and final part is over halfway finished.
> 
> Thank you _so_ much to everyone for your feedback on the first chapter. I've been writing fanfiction for a long time but I've always been too afraid to post it, so your kind words mean a lot to me.

The next few weeks are tough, even by Geralt’s standards. The weather turns colder the further north they travel, and the terrain becomes more difficult as they near the mountains. It rains for a week and a half, the temperature only barely above freezing. The towns they pass are filled with travelers taking shelter from the weather, and the inns are full to bursting. The best accommodations they receive come in the form of farmers allowing them to take shelter in their barns during the night, although Geralt is careful to always be gone by first light.

Jaskier is clearly miserable, and yet he doesn’t complain, not even when his silk pants get ruined by the freezing mud. The bard uses his last crowns to buy a new set of clothing. The shop has plenty of weather-appropriate choices in various colors, and yet Jaskier silently pays for a muted black and gray set with a thick black cloak. Geralt almost offers to help pay for something a little more… _Jaskier,_ but looking at the marked prices reveals that Jaskier could’ve afforded them on his own.

Every time they stop to make camp, Jaskier sets himself to some task with distracted efficiency, lost in thought. He collects firewood while Geralt sets rabbit snares, or lays out their bedrolls while Geralt skins their dinner. It’s wrong. The entire time they’ve travelled together, Jaskier only ever helped if he was asked, and then he would halfheartedly complain the whole time. Geralt finds a certain peace in settling them down for the night, so the lack of help never bothered him. It bothers him more that Jaskier is helping. He should be grateful, but…

He isn’t bothering to hide his concern any longer, partially because Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice it. He stares openly at the bard, who sits silently more often than not, unless coaxed into a conversation by Geralt. Worry is matched with anger, anger that Geralt doesn’t know what’s going on or what to do, and anger at Jaskier for not being himself. 

They’re passing through a settlement that is so small it can hardly be called a village when Geralt finds that he has had enough. He wants to stay and get something to eat, to see if he can find any work, and to have some well-deserved ale. 

“Wait, what are you doing?” Jaskier asks with a frown as Geralt ties Roach’s reins to the post outside the bar. “We should keep going, there’s nothing for us here.”

Geralt throws a look over his shoulder. “I’m hungry, and the next stop is a half day from here. We should eat.”

By all accounts, Jaskier should be thrilled at the stop. He is not. “A half day? That’s not too far, we’d get there at, what- sunset, do you think? A bit after? That’s not bad, let’s go.”

Geralt turns to openly stare at Jaskier, half in annoyance and half in confusion, and asks, “What is wrong with you?”

Jaskier bounces on the balls of his feet and glances around. “Nothing, I just don’t think we should stop here. We should take advantage of this, uh, lovely clear sky- well, mostly clear- and get somewhere nicer before it starts to rain, or gods forbid, _snow,_ so if we can just get moving-” He reaches over to start untying Roach and Geralt smacks his hands away.

“I don’t mean just now.” Geralt clarifies. It comes out harsher than he wants it to, but he’s frustrated. “You haven’t played in weeks, you don’t sing anymore-”

“You don’t even like my singing, what do you care?” Jaskier interrupts. He stops glancing around to give Geralt an irritated look. “I haven’t been in the mood. Can we _please_ leave?”

Geralt is done being passive. He crosses his arms and stands tall in front of Roach. “Tell me what’s wrong and we’ll leave.”

“Nothing is wrong!”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying, Geralt, I-“

“Yes you are.”

“Can we talk about this _later?_ "

“No.”

Jaskier roughly runs his hands down his face and shifts uncomfortably. His expression is open and vulnerable, and Geralt finds himself suddenly wanting to leave too. “I grew up here, alright? And I haven’t been back since my mother died, so if we could _please_ go, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Geralt waits until Jaskier meets his eyes before nodding slightly and reaching for Roach. Jaskier relaxes a tiny bit. “The food was probably shit anyway.” Geralt says quietly as they start walking down the settlement’s main street. 

Jaskier smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Absolutely terrible. I am doing you a favor; it’s killed before and it will kill again.”

They continue on in silence for a while. Geralt walks alongside Roach, unwilling to mount her and leave Jaskier to walk alone, and watches the bard from the corner of his eye. They may have arrived in Jaskier’s hometown today, but that doesn’t explain the two months beforehand. Jaskier has dodged the bigger question, the real question, and they both know it. Geralt isn’t sure how to bring it up again.

“My father killed her.” Jaskier says suddenly as they reach copse of trees and pass into the cold shade. The Witcher makes a small noise of acknowledgement to show he’s listening but doesn’t dare speak. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t a good man. Angry, most of the time. Liked to drink. I left home as soon as I figured out that people would pay to hear me sing, and I tried to get her to come with me, but she wouldn’t. She still loved him, somehow.”

He stops speaking for a moment to watch the ground. “He strangled her a month after I left. Hung himself afterwards.” Jaskier’s eyes flit quickly to Geralt and back to the ground again, then he says in a rush, “I’m sorry I made you leave, I don’t mean to be irritating-”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Geralt interrupts, not unkindly, “There was no reason to stay, and we’ll be near Vallweir before dark.” He steels himself, and then carefully adds, “You need to tell me when something is wrong. I wouldn’t have argued if I’d known.”

“You’re not exactly the most forthcoming person yourself.” Jaskier says with an arched eyebrow.

Geralt considers this as he watches the gathering clouds. He’s known Jaskier for years, but what does he really know about him? He didn’t know where he was from, or that he’d had a rough childhood, or that his parents were dead. Jaskier talks a lot, but most of what he says lacks substance. He says everything and nothing all at once. On that note, what does Jaskier know about Geralt? None of these personal details seemed to matter until now.

“My mother abandoned me in the woods when I was small,” Geralt finds himself saying. “I barely remember. She left me for a Witcher named Vesemir to find. He took me to Kaer Morhen, and I began my training.”

Jaskier stares at him with wide eyes. “She never came back for you?” 

A strong swell of fondness hits Geralt at the shocked and dismayed expression Jaskier wears. “She did not.”

Jaskier stops and takes hold of Geralt’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he says gently. Geralt looks down at him and gets caught in the emotion shining in the bard’s eyes. He doesn’t want to look away. He wants to reach out and pull Jaskier closer to him. He wants to make him forget about the tragedies of their pasts. He wants Jaskier to sing again.

Geralt opens his mouth to say all of that and more when the sky opens up and attempts to drown them. Jaskier stumbles back and flails as he flips his hood up, and Geralt glares at the clouds.

…

It’s by sheer luck that there are rooms available above the tavern in Vallweir, and that Geralt has enough crowns left to afford one of them for a couple nights. Geralt is unloading some of their supplies from Roach when Jaskier pulls his own bag down into his arms, and Geralt smells blood again.

Travelling is hard on the body. It’s inevitable to get blisters, calluses, splinters, bruises, cuts, and, on occasion, burns. Geralt knows this. It isn’t out of the ordinary for one or both of them to be a little banged up. It shouldn’t mean anything. People bleed, especially bards who are neither as soft as they look nor as tough as they pretend to be. It happens.

This, however, feels different.

Every time Jaskier and Geralt share the same space, he catches a hint of it. It’s become a secondary scent that Geralt can always identify if he tries hard enough. Sometimes the smell is stronger than others, and sometimes days pass without a trace of it. The worst part is, he can tell when it’s fresh. Old blood is nowhere near as aromatic.

Geralt is out of his element. Jaskier is hurt, somehow, and he can’t fix it. He doesn’t know what _it_ is. He’d even asked, twice, whether Jaskier was alright after the scent picked up sharply, but Jaskier always had an excuse. He scraped his shin tripping over a log while collecting firewood. He bit the inside of his mouth and kept worrying the sore. Geralt knows he’s lying, but he doesn’t know how to prove it. The situation seems too fragile to approach except under the perfect circumstances, and Geralt has yet to encounter them.

“Are you coming inside or are you bedding down with Roach for the night?” Jaskier calls from the open doorway of the tavern. Geralt grunts and shoulders his bags.

The tavern is full but not cramped. Jaskier had already paid for their room, so Geralt deposits his things on the floor beside the bed and locks the door as he steps back into the hallway. He’s starving, and Jaskier must be of the same mind because he’s already at the bar ordering food when Geralt joins him. The bard’s mood has clearly improved, being out of the rain and awaiting a hot meal, and it inspires a deep feeling of contentedness in Geralt’s chest. They need this.

The barkeep does a double take when he sees Geralt. The Witcher fights to keep the irritation off his face and carefully keeps his hands relaxed on the bar. He’s not going to let a superstitious bartender ruin this for Jaskier.

“Gods be good, you’re a Witcher, ain’t ya?” The man asked gleefully. Geralt relaxes slightly and nods. “I’ll be damned, she knew you’d come. I doubted her, probably shouldn’t’ve, but here we are.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier frowns, “What are you talking about?”

“There was a woman come through here a few days back. A sorceress. Said to be on the lookout for a white haired Witcher and his little singing friend.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

Geralt ignores Jaskier. “What did she want?”

The barkeep fills two tankards with ale and slides them across the bar. “She said to tell you that there’s work here. Lord Ulric has himself a problem what needs a Witcher to solve. She mentioned no price, but Lord Ulric ain’t the sort to leave a good deed unpaid. I’d ask after it.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully and takes a drink as the barkeep is called over to another patron. Jaskier tilts his head back and groans.

“When is doing what _she_ says ever a good idea?” He asks under his breath. Most of Jaskier’s protests regarding Yennefer lack conviction anymore, but Geralt hears the exhaustion behind this one. 

“She told me about the alghoul.” Geralt points out. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You would’ve figured that out on your own.” 

“I would’ve,” he agrees, “But maybe not before it killed you.” The bard makes a face but doesn’t argue. Geralt continues, “It does no harm to ask after the job. I’ll find Yen tomorrow; we could stay here for a while, make some money. You could find somewhere to play, if you want. You can’t tell me it won’t be nice to be able to afford our own rooms.”

Jaskier’s face falls ever so slightly. It’s become a lot easier to read his expressions, after studying them for so long. Geralt wants to kick himself. Should he not have mentioned the singing? 

Jaskier sighs, and his expression lifts into something more neutral. “You’re right. It’ll be nice to have some space.” He downs the rest of his ale and slaps Geralt on the shoulder as he moves away. “It’s been a long day. Goodnight, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t bother to go after him. What would it solve? He takes a slow, even breath, drains his own tankard, and motions for another. “Fuck.”

…

Yennefer is radiating smugness as Geralt steps into Lord Ulric’s conference room. Natural light floods in through large windows along the left, and a massive oak table takes up the middle of the room. The room is awash in finery, and Yennefer is no different. She wears a purple dress that slims her figure and accentuates her eyes. Something in Geralt’s chest loosens slightly at seeing her well. 

“I knew you’d be coming this way,” Yennefer says. She’s sitting along the front edge of the table, leaning back onto her arms. “Call it a gut feeling.”

“Where’s the lord?” Geralt asks, taking a moment to look around.

“Lord Ulric and his lady wife are in mourning.” Yennefer replied. “Both of their sons tragically died on a hunt a few weeks back. Are you alright? You look…unsettled.”

She scoots off the table and peers into Geralt’s eyes. He lets her, but only because his mental shields are strong enough to keep her inquisitive presence from worming into his thoughts. “I’m fine,” he says, gently taking her by the shoulders and moving her back a step. “What killed the sons?”

“Straight to business, I suppose.” Yen shrugs, but the concern doesn’t quite leave her eyes. Is that what he has looked like over the past few months? “No one has seen the thing and lived to talk about it, but I saw the bodies before they were processed for the burial, and they were brutalized. Lord Ulric said they left for the mountains four weeks ago, and the bodies were found by a rescue party eight days later, when they didn’t return home. With how they were decomposed, it puts their time of death right around the full moon.”

“A werewolf?” Geralt’s eyebrows raise. He does the math in his head. “The full moon is two days from now.”

“A bit of a time crunch, I know, but it’s important to prevent another attack and to keep the people from panicking. I won’t bore you with the politics, but now is not the time for Lord Ulric’s subjects to doubt his ability to protect them.”

“A time crunch? Yen, they were hunting in the mountains. It could be anywhere; two days is not enough time to get up there and search for its hunting grounds. If there were no previous attacks, the bastard could’ve been passing through, long gone-”

“Lord Ulric is offering five hundred crowns.” Yennefer interrupts. Geralt blinks. That’s a lot of money. “I never said there hadn’t been other attacks. Livestock have been suffering for the past several months- this was the first human casualty. I don’t think they made it more than a day and a half out from Vallweir. It’s got the taste of human blood now, and if it’s been close enough to gut cows then it’s close enough to gut humans. Will you help?”

Five hundred crowns is a lot of money. More than Geralt and Jaskier have had between them in a long time. Money like that can buy a lot. A lot of food. A lot of ale. A lot of time for Jaskier to relax in a real bed, with a roof above his head and small comforts aplenty. Jaskier needs _something_ , and rest seems like a good place to start. Still, Geralt will have to leave immediately, within the day. He sighs heavily and nods.

“I’ll have to buy a few things, but I can be on my way by early afternoon. Do you have a map of the area?”

“His lordship will pay for your supplies,” Yennefer promises immediately. She beckons Geralt over to the opposite end of the large table where a detailed map is spread and points out the path the brothers had taken, where their bodies were found, and where the livestock attacks had taken place. Geralt commits it to memory and hums softly in thanks. Yennefer hands him a small coin purse for his supplies. Geralt is turning to leave without another word when her small hand reaches out and stops him.

“Geralt,” she hesitates for a moment, then finds her center. “Something is troubling you, and I’d like to help if I can. What’s wrong?”

How many times has Geralt asked the same thing of Jaskier? He’s given up on getting an answer. Yennefer watches the indecisiveness play out on his face. His resolve weakens slightly. Admitting that Jaskier is having trouble feels like a betrayal, especially given who he’s talking to, but he’s running out of options. What else can he do? Stumbling around the topic isn’t doing anything but frustrating Geralt and pushing Jaskier away.

“Nothing is wrong. Not with me.” Geralt finally admits. 

“Jaskier?” She questions after a moment, when Geralt doesn’t continue. “What happened?”

Reluctantly, Geralt fills her in on Jaskier’s actions and behaviors. It doesn’t sound like much, listed out loud, but the frustration and worry is evident in his voice, and he likes to think that Yennefer knows enough about Jaskier to understand that none of this is normal. When he mentions the smell of blood that seems to haunt Jaskier like a ghost, Yennefer’s eyes sharpen as if she’s comprehending something that Geralt isn’t. He doesn’t let himself think about what that may mean.

At the end of it, Yennefer is staring off at the wall, deep in thought, while Geralt waits for her to say something. Several long moments pass, and Geralt is about to chalk it up to a lost cause (why did he think Yennefer would be more emotionally competent than him anyway?) when she clears her throat and says, “You’ve been travelling north. Some people don’t tolerate the cold as well as others.”

Geralt stares dubiously. That’s all she has to offer? She must sense his disappointment, because her gaze clears and she turns to look him in the eye. “Sounds to me like you’re doing what you can. You’ve made it clear that you’ll listen if he wants to talk, and sometimes that’s all you can do.”

The advice seems rather lackluster. Geralt was hoping for something with a bit more substance than that, but it does soothe a small part of him to know that someone else thinks he’s doing the right thing. He mulls this over.

Yen clears her throat again and blinks. The far-away look is still on her face. “I have a few duties that I must attend to,” She says distractedly. “I’ll inform Lord Ulric that you’ve taken the contract and will be leaving immediately. You’d best get moving.”

She walks toward the double doors with a purpose, pausing only long enough to throw a “Good luck!” over her shoulder. Geralt is left standing there, more confused than ever. With friends like these, it won’t be his profession that kills him.

He spends the next few hours at the market. Werewolves are some of the fastest creatures alive, and when fully transformed their hide is hard to pierce. The coin purse Yennefer gave him is heavy, so Geralt heads to the armory and puts in a request for a crossbow, complete with silver tipped bolts. He waits in the shop as the assistant secures the custom arrowheads to the shafts and eyes the craftmanship of the crossbow itself. It packs a strong punch; the only downside being the time it takes to reload, but that can’t be helped. A bow wouldn’t hold the same power.

Geralt’s next stop is to the apothecary. Wolfsbane is relatively inexpensive, though the man running the shop gives him a suspicious look at the quantity he purchases. Perhaps the townsfolk aren’t as oblivious as Yennefer believes. Geralt tucks the herbs into a pouch on his belt and leaves before any awkward questions can be asked.

In a perfect world, he won’t need it, but it’s better safe than sorry. Getting bitten by a werewolf isn’t guaranteed to turn someone -the odds are pretty low, actually- but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible, and wolfsbane, if administered early enough, can undo the effects. The ‘wolf in the mountains is likely past saving from a moral standpoint, but never let it be said that Geralt of Rivia has slain a sentient beast with a reasonable chance of redemption. Those born as werewolves can control their turning, but those bitten or cursed cannot. He is unwilling to punish a man who had no choice in what he became. 

That being said, waking in the mountains with a stomach full of human meat could very well have been the end of that man’s sanity. Sometimes putting a suffering beast down is kinder.

He’s ruminating on this as he approaches the tavern they’re staying at, so he very nearly misses the pair of people standing by the side of the stables, underneath the shade of an ancient tree. The subtle scent of lilac and gooseberries snaps him out of his daze just in time to catch a glimpse of the purple of Yennefer’s dress. 

Brow furrowed, Geralt takes a step back and stares at Jaskier and Yennefer across the stretch of grass. He narrows his eyes and angles himself behind a collection of empty whiskey barrels. He’s too far away to hear what they’re saying, but Jaskier’s shoulders are stiff and he looks uncomfortable. Yennefer places a hand on Jaskier’s arm, and surprisingly, he doesn’t throw it off.

She’s saying something lowly, but from this view Geralt cannot read her lips. Jaskier replies quickly, shaking his head, but it looks like he’s interrupted. Yennefer looks around, spots Geralt, and skips her eyes over him as if he isn’t there. After a moment, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a small vial, and offers it to Jaskier. 

The bard looks at it for a long time, and then hesitantly takes it and slides it in to his own pocket. Geralt’s stomach twists in foreboding. The feeling intensifies as Yennefer places both hands on Jaskier’s face and leans in to whisper something, as if she thinks Geralt can hear them from this distance. A spike of jealously runs down his spine. Yennefer shouldn’t be touching him like that; why is Jaskier _letting_ her? 

The moment is broken and Jaskier hurries away into the stables. Yennefer watches him go for a moment, then turns and strides toward Geralt and his shitty hiding place. He makes a note to tell Jaskier to pay better attention to his surroundings. 

“What did you give him?” He asks immediately, as soon as Yen is close enough to hear him. She doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“That’s not your business. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that spying is rude?”

“He is my business. What did you give him?”

Yennefer sighs sharply and Geralt tamps down hard on his frustration. He doesn’t want to fight. “What I gave him doesn’t matter. It’s what he does with it that counts.” Seeing the expression on Geralt’s face, she quickly adds, “I just wanted to speak with him about… shared experiences, we’ll call it. You’re a good friend, Geralt. Watch after him.”

It’s silent between them for a long time. Yennefer isn’t looking at him. Geralt studies her face intently, trying his best to decipher the emotions there, but there’s too much he doesn’t understand. “Watch after him,” she repeats, then finally meets his hard stare. “If you see red flares, find him. Run.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Geralt demands. Yennefer shakes her head and walks away from him. He knows from experience it isn’t a good idea to pull her back, but he’s incredibly tempted. “Yennefer! What the fuck did you give him? _Yen!_ ” 

“Why are you yelling?” Jaskier calls. Geralt spins around. He wasn’t expecting to see Jaskier halfway across the clearing, walking toward him with his head tilted. There is no indication that he knows Geralt had been watching them. 

Geralt meets him halfway. “What were you talking about with Yennefer?” 

Jaskier pales and carefully looks just to the right of Geralt, barely missing eye contact. Geralt wants to punch something. “Ah, she came to tell me that Roach should be saddled. You’re hunting tonight?”

“Werewolf,” he grunts. Jaskier’s mouth falls open.

“Like a real werewolf? Turns under the full moon, bites people, massive fangs and claws?” At Geralt’s nod, Jaskier whistles lowly. “Wow, sounds exciting. When do we leave?”

The Witcher had every intention of telling Jaskier that he would be back in a few days’ time. The room above the tavern is paid for, and this job is not the type Geralt is comfortable with Jaskier tagging along for. The alghoul was dangerous, but not like this. Geralt will have to ride hard to get to where he needs to be in time. He’d thought Jaskier would be better off in town, but now…

Now he is reluctant to leave him alone. To leave him with Yennefer.

“We leave now. Get your stuff; it’s going to be a hard ride.” 

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and he hurries into the tavern. Geralt does his best to ignore the chill of foreboding as he finishes readying Roach. Leaving Jaskier seems wrong, but so does bringing him along. They’d practiced with Jaskier’s dagger a few times, but the bard only has the basics down- how to stab without getting stabbed in return. Those lessons are laughable when pitted against a ravenous werewolf.

It’s too late now, though. Jaskier is back with his small medical kit slung over his shoulder, clearly itching to go. Geralt nearly tells him that he’s changed his mind, but the position of the sun tells him that he doesn’t have time to fight with Jaskier. They need to leave.

They ride hard for several hours, with Jaskier sitting behind Geralt and holding tight to his waist. Roach is strong, but the weight of two grown men is a lot to carry at such a pace. They have to slow many times, when the trail they’re taking grows too rocky to travel on at anything faster than a trot. Geralt strokes Roach’s neck every once in a while to urge her on and thinks of all the things he will buy her with the money they earn.

The sun is way below the tree line when Geralt finally draws Roach to a halt. There is still light to see by, but it’s fading fast. The air is unseasonably warm for the time of year, so they could do without a fire, but Geralt knows that Jaskier doesn’t like to make camp without one. Unfortunately, the ground is wet from an earlier drizzle, so finding dry firewood is a chore. They gather enough to get the flames started just as the last of the light fades away, but the weak fire spits mostly smoke. It lights up their immediate area, but it doesn’t do much else.

Geralt watches the pathetic pit hiss and crackle. Jaskier has climbed into a low tree branch to sit off the wet ground, despite already having his bedroll laid out on the forest floor. Jaskier’s hand is in his pocket, holding something, and unease hits Geralt like a wave. He doesn’t like feeling helpless, can count on one hand the number of times he’s felt that way in the past fifty years. It’s a stupid, useless feeling, and he curses Jaskier for doing this to him.

“I’m going to get more firewood.” He announces gruffly. If he doesn’t get away for a moment he might actually start hitting a tree. Jaskier hums his acknowledgement.

Seeing in the dark is no issue for Geralt. He wanders away from their camp and absently searches for drier wood. He’s not hopeful of finding much.

This has to stop. Geralt can’t take any more. When he gets back, he’s going to force Jaskier to tell him everything. He may be a man of few words in most cases, but he’s not completely tactless. He’s able to have conversations about personal things, emotional things, if he needs to. He’d been waiting all this time for Jaskier to start, but it’s abundantly clear that the bard isn’t going to. Geralt shouldn’t feel like Jaskier is safer hunting a werewolf than being left by himself.

Mind made up, Geralt actually focuses in on gathering firewood. He’s just spotted a small dead tree mostly sheltered underneath the canopy of a thick bush when the night lights up with a flash. 

He whips around on high alert and makes out four bright red explosions just barely visible through the trees, back in the direction he came from. His mutated heart stops cold in his chest as Yennefer’s words come back to him, and all Geralt can think to do is run.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters keep getting longer because I have no self control.
> 
> Here we'll see the important parts of Jaskier and Yennefer's conversation, but not the whole thing.

The vial is warm and smooth in Jaskier’s hand despite the cool night air. Whatever Yennefer had given him carries its own warmth, and while Jaskier knows fuck all about magic, if asked, he would say it feels alive.

Jaskier shifts the potion to his left hand and stares blankly at the dying fire. Geralt had gone to fetch drier wood only a few moments ago, so Jaskier figures he has a good hour before the Witcher makes it back to their small camp. The sky had been drizzling all day, and while it had quit raining around sundown, the forest was still damp and finding wood dry enough to light had been difficult. 

Not that it matters much, with how unseasonably warm it is. Not _warm,_ exactly, but not freezing like Jaskier had expected. Geralt had lit the fire for Jaskier’s sake, knowing how uncomfortable it made the bard to be the only one who couldn’t see. Jaskier hadn’t even needed to ask, which was…something. 

Jaskier sighs quietly and leans back against the smooth bark of the tree he’s propped in, only a couple feet off the ground. It makes for a nice perch, though the branch isn’t nearly wide enough for him to sleep on without risking falling on his ass in the dead of night. Geralt would be amused though.

Ah, Geralt.

Honestly, Jaskier muses dully, if he weren’t currently hunting with the Witcher, he’d probably have swallowed the contents of the little vial only moments after Yennefer gave it to him. The allure of not _knowing,_ but heavily suspecting, is almost overwhelming. Even more overwhelming than Yennefer blindsiding him in the first place. 

_“I know how you feel.” Yennefer says. “Perhaps not exactly, but close. To want to sleep deeply, for once. Maybe not wake up again in the morning.”_

_Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat. This is not what he expected when the sorceress fell into step beside him as he went to check on Roach. It feels odd not to wake up with the horse nearby after so long on the road. “I- what? What are you talking about? Where’s Geralt?”_

_“Geralt is worried about you.”_

_“Geralt doesn’t worry about anything.” Jaskier says automatically, then regrets it. It’s not true._

_“I hope you know how pointless it is to lie to me. Even if you were good at it- which you aren’t, by the way- I could look into your eyes and see everything I wanted to know.”_

_That amount of power makes Jaskier uncomfortable. He’s careful look everywhere but the mage’s eyes. “Great. This has been lovely, I’m so glad you came by to insult me, but I have things to do, like most importantly, leaving this conversation.”_

_“Jaskier, wait.” The sorceress puts herself right in his way before he can duck into the stables. “We aren’t friends, I know that, but I want to help.”_

Help. That’s what she’d called it. Jaskier wonders if she really knows what that word means. It seems like a cruel joke. He turns the little bottle over again and worries at the glass with his fingers. What right did she have, to talk as if she knows him? As if she knows how he _feels?_ Part of him wishes he had left before she offered the vial. It is a small part.

_He stares at the potion in his hand before automatically slipping it into his pocket. “There comes a point where you have to make a choice.” Yennefer says gently. “Walking around as a shade is no way to live. If…if you find that you seek that deep rest, this will help.” She watches him intently. Jaskier thinks this is the longest they’ve ever been alone together. She opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, then continues, “I had to make that choice, once. I was lucky to have someone to help me recover from my mistake.”_

_Jaskier’s eyes dart down to the scars on her wrists, made visible by the short sleeves of her dress. Is this conversation really happening? His stomach turns over. He will not talk about this. Not with Geralt, and certainly not with Yennefer._

_“He really is worried about you,” Yennefer continues, as if Jaskier isn’t two seconds from bolting. “He would like to help, if you’d let him.”_

_There are a million things he could say- since when do you care, I don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re mistaken, how would you know when we’ve been on the road for months- but then it hits him that Geralt must’ve sought the mage’s advice when he asked after the job. The combination of betrayal and tenderness is dizzying._

_Jaskier is about to back away and mutter something about Roach when Yennefer moves closer and gently takes his face between her hands. He finds that he’s not afraid of her touch. “The past may seem like a prison, but it doesn’t hold power over you today. The future is vast and limitless, so don’t rob yourself of the chance to see it.”_

_She lets go, and Jaskier retreats without a word, while he’s still able._

A choice, Yennefer had said. The softness in her voice had made him uncomfortable, even more so than the topic of which she spoke, but Jaskier had recognized a kind sentiment when he heard it, so he’d pocketed the potion without questioning the contents. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he is better off not knowing.

Still, there’s the saying about curiosity and the cat, and Jaskier’s curiosity has been awfully morbid lately.

With a quick glance around the dark edges of the camp to make sure Geralt isn’t going to emerge from the shadows like a beast of the night, Jaskier sits upright and dangles his legs off the branch. His hands shake with nerves, fear, and a dark hint of anticipation as his thumb rubs along the edge of the cork stopper in the vial. Jaskier’s breath quickens and he looks up again, just to be sure.

Geralt would kill him if he had any idea what Jaskier had been carrying around. A potion? Sure. A potion from _Yennefer?_ Perhaps; she’d been useful before and loathe as he is to admit it, Jaskier is sure she’ll be useful again. A potion from Yennefer of unknown contents that Jaskier itches to try, alone, a day or more away from any village or town that could possibly offer assistance should it turn out to be poison? Oh, the fury that would emanate off the Witcher would no doubt be enough to relight their pitiful campfire’s dying embers. It is a stupid idea from every angle. 

Incredibly stupid.

And yet it probably won’t hurt to smell it, right? To try to puzzle out what could be inside? He doesn’t have to drink it, not now at least, but surely having some hint at the mystery will abate the urge to go bottoms up, consequences and fate be damned.

Jaskier licks his lips, glances around, and pushes the cork out of the bottle with a little pop.

Red jets of light shoot rapidly out of the top, four in quick succession, and explode high above the tree line. Roach screams in surprise and so does Jaskier as he topples back off the branch and lands in a painful, undignified heap on the wet ground, his breath driven out of him. 

White aftersparks dance painfully in his eyes and Jaskier wheezes in an agonizing gasp of air. He blinks heavily and shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes when that doesn’t help him become less blind. Roach knickers uneasily from where she’s tied several paces to his left, and Jaskier figures he should at least try to soothe her before Geralt gets back.

Geralt.

The potion.

_Fuck!_

Vision half restored, Jaskier fumbles frantically around him for the vial and nearly whimpers when he finds it, empty and cold without its mysterious brew to keep it warm. “Shit!” He nearly shouts, and swears again as he stumbles to his feet. The entire thing had spilled out onto the ground when he fell; Jaskier moves towards the fire and peers at the murky glass, trying in vain to see if anything is left inside. A few drops, maybe. Certainly not enough.

Distantly Jaskier realizes he’s shaking, far more than he had been before he’d opened the damn thing. It’s _ruined._ Gone. Destroyed. What is he supposed to hold onto now? His dagger? It works for temporary relief, but he couldn’t use it as a means to an end. He’s not strong enough, not brave enough. The potion would’ve been fast and peaceful, he assumes, a way to quietly drift away without worry. Without _pain._ The loss of that option, that choice, is staggering. Jaskier grits his jaw, shuts his eyes, and tries to breathe through his grief.

Just as soon as he thinks he might be getting himself under control, Geralt crashes through the undergrowth and into the camp.

Jaskier’s eyes shoot open and he freezes at the intensity of the Witcher’s glare. “What the fuck was that?” Geralt demands harshly, striding forward until he’s within arm’s reach of the bard. 

Jaskier takes two steps back and holds his hands up, realizing too late that in doing so he exposes the bottle held tightly against his palm. He immediately makes it worse by whipping his hand behind his back as if to hide it. “Uh, I- what, I don’t-” 

Geralt reaches out and grabs him roughly by the shoulder with one hand and pulls Jaskier’s arm out from behind his back with the other. He gives the vial a cursory look before taking hold of Jaskier’s other shoulder and shaking him. “What did she give you?” Geralt asks urgently.

Jaskier, for all that words are his weapon, can’t find any. He gapes up at Geralt with a frozen tongue as his heart tries its very best to beat completely out of his chest. He has never been afraid of Geralt, not truly, but this situation? Being confronted? _This_ Jaskier is afraid of. 

“I- I didn’t drink it,” Jaskier manages to stutter out, “I dropped it, I don’t know what happened, there were these lights, but you- you probably saw that, I mean, they were so fucking bright-”

The bottle is snatched out of Jaskier’s hand amidst his babbling and Jaskier takes that small opportunity to weasel his way out of Geralt’s tight grip. He swallows nervously, incredibly aware that he is only able to take a step back because the Witcher allows it.

Jaskier tears his lips to shreds with his teeth as he desperately thinks of how to get out of this situation. Geralt clearly knew about the potion, but it doesn’t make sense that Yennefer would have said anything, after everything she’d told Jaskier. After what she’d given him. He’d been careful to keep in secured in his pocket- there’s no way Geralt could have seen it. It’s impossible. Unless…could Geralt smell it? Did it even have a smell? That’s all he’d wanted to know, he wasn’t really going to drink it-

All thoughts flee Jaskier’s mind as Geralt takes a sniff of the bottle, stiffens, and locks wide eyes with Jaskier.

“This has nightshade in it,” Geralt says lowly. 

Oh.

Jaskier swallows. 

He can’t look away, would give anything to have the willpower to turn from the intensity of those mutated gold eyes. Jaskier’s heart is still racing, and he distantly thinks that if things don’t calm down soon he might keel over all on his own. 

“She didn’t tell me what was in it,” Jaskier says after a terrible silence. He keeps his voice pitched low to avoid it cracking with emotion or nerves.

Geralt blinks and narrows his eyes. The spell is broken and Jaskier tears his gaze away from Geralt’s and focuses on the dark blur of trees over Geralt’s shoulder. “You’re lying,” the Witcher growls with a small tilt of his head. A bolt of alarm runs down Jaskier’s spine and he has his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture before making the conscious choice to move.

“No! No, I’m not lying, I swear, she didn’t tell me what was in it, I didn’t know!” Immediately Jaskier knows he’s done nothing to help his case by the way the bottle is dropped to the ground and Geralt is crowding into Jaskier’s space, pushing him back against the tree Jaskier had sat in earlier.

“No?” Geralt challenges. Jaskier can’t breathe. “You’re going to tell me you took a potion from a sorceress you loathe and carried it with you- brought it, when you left your _lute_ \- without knowing _what it is or what it does?”_ The last part is delivered with such a low tone Jaskier can feel it rumbling in his own chest. Just as Jaskier thinks things couldn’t possibly get worse, the prick of coming tears stings his eyes. He’s doing a not-terrible job of holding them at bay when Geralt sighs harshly and says, “You’ve been hiding something for months. The truth, Jaskier. _Now.”_

And Jaskier, unable to disobey that tone and desperate to diffuse some of the tension, blurts out, “I didn’t know what was in it, I promise, I just knew what it would do,” right as the first tear falls from his eye. He dashes it away almost violently and tries to move further back against the tree without success. Geralt does not move.

Geralt’s eyes are studying his face and Jaskier knows he’s seeing more than what’s on the surface. He’s very aware that the Witcher can hear his frantic heartbeat, and smell the panic on his breath. Knowing that Geralt possesses such abilities is very different from experiencing them first hand. 

“Why did she give it to you?” Geralt asks in an unreadable tone. Jaskier will never be anywhere near as good at deciphering facial expressions as Geralt, but he thinks _(fears)_ that he sees a dawning understanding overtaking his features. Jaskier swallows tightly, and the fight leaves him in a sudden rush.

Geralt clearly senses that Jaskier has given up, because he takes a single step back and Jaskier slumps against the tree as if he were a puppet with cut strings, refusing eye contact.

“She wanted me to have a choice,” he says hoarsely. The words feel like they’re being ripped from his throat. “A real one, she said. I…she gave me the vial and didn’t say what was in it, but I didn’t ask. I just took it.”

By Jaskier’s usual standards, his words are incredibly indirect and unhelpful, but some part of that mess gives Geralt the answer he’s looking for. Jaskier numbly wonders if Yennefer had ever discussed the scars on her wrists with Geralt.

Jaskier only notices that he’s been breathing shallowly when the air catches in his throat and stops completely. Geralt’s face is a mixture of pain, frustration, and the slightest bit of fear, but most chillingly of all, he does not look surprised. 

“I really wasn’t going to take it,” Jaskier tries after a tense moment. He can’t stand the silence. He can’t feel his hands. “I-I wasn’t, I just wanted to know for sure, I couldn’t _know,_ and-and-“

Geralt takes hold of Jaskier’s shoulder again, this time with less force, and guides him away from the tree. Jaskier flushes with embarrassment as his knees buckle slightly and the Witcher becomes the only thing holding him up while he regains his footing. “It’s not- it wouldn’t really have done anything, maybe, probably-“

“Jaskier.”

“-and it wasn’t supposed to explode like that, I think-”

“Stop talking-”

“-but it scared Roach and I really am sorry about that-”

“Jaskier, _enough_.” Geralt barks at him, and Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut. “I am not worried about Roach right now.” Geralt speaks slowly as he lowers Jaskier down into a sitting position on Jaskier’s bedroll. “Did you get any of it on you?”

Jaskier wearily shakes his head as Geralt crouches next to him. “I was sitting in the tree when I opened it and I, uh- fell back and dropped it.” When Geralt takes more than a minute to respond, Jaskier softly adds, “I’m sorry.”

“Do you know what would’ve happened if you drank even half of that?” Geralt asks tensely. Jaskier has never heard that tone come from his friend before. “You would’ve died. Fast. Probably faster than I could run back. So tell me, was it your intention for me to come back to find your body, or were you planning on having me watch while you choked on your last breath?”

Jaskier’s stomach turns at the idea and the guilt that accompanies it. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” is all he thinks to say. It sounds weak. “I just wanted to hold onto it.”

The Witcher pins Jaskier in place with his stare. “Why?”

Jaskier sighs quietly and resists the urge to closes his eyes. He’s too tired to have this conversation. It’s late, and they’d been travelling hard all day, and he’s just had the shit scared out of him by a booby trapped potion that he still doesn’t have an explanation for, so he answers tonelessly instead of dodging the question. “In case I needed it someday.”

Geralt nods slowly, as if he expected that response. “How often do you consider it?”

Jaskier does close his eyes this time. He reclines back onto his bedroll and bites the inside of his cheek until he’s sure he can keep his voice stead as he says, “Often.” He thinks about saying more, not entirely sure what sort of answer Geralt is fishing for, but an enormous yawn interrupts his thoughts with its intensity. Jaskier’s hands are still trembling. He curls them into fists and pretends he can’t tell that Geralt is watching him.

“You should rest,” Geralt says gruffly. It sounds like a dismissal, and the aching in Jaskier’s stomach gets worse. He didn’t want any of this to happen. “The full moon is tomorrow night and we still have ground to cover. We’re leaving at dawn.”

Jaskier nods and doesn’t open his eyes. He can’t look at Geralt right now. He may never be able to look at him again. What kind of travelling companion is he? Jaskier has long since known that the whole Witchers-don’t-have-feelings thing is bullshit, but this is different. This isn’t just emotion- it’s part of who Jaskier is, and (unfortunately) there’s nothing that can change that. He knows it will pass, because it always does, but it will come back, and what does he expect Geralt to do then? 

Jaskier isn’t an idiot. He’s seen how angry and frustrated Geralt has been since Jaskier’s mood started to slip. If anything, Jaskier had expected the Witcher to enjoy the peace and quiet. Jaskier knows he runs his mouth too much, plays too loudly, blurts out the first shitty lyrics he can think of while trying to come up with a new song. Geralt likes silence. He likes to travel alone. 

Geralt has no obligation to look after him. Jaskier’s been told to fuck off more times than he can count, and he’s usually able to brush it off, but the thought has steadily been growing that maybe Geralt means it, and Jaskier is mistaking a real command for banter. 

Jaskier isn’t Geralt’s problem. The Witcher doesn’t want to deal with him on a good day; asking him to put up with Jaskier on a bad one is out of the question. 

“I can hear you thinking.” Geralt rumbles beside him. He hasn’t moved from Jaskier’s side. “Sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Jaskier shifts on his bedroll until his back is to the Witcher. “What if I don’t want to talk?” He asks quietly, more to test the waters than out of actual curiosity.

“You don’t have that option anymore.” The other man’s stare feels like a heavy weight on his back.

Of course not. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“Sleep, Jaskier.”

He doesn’t reply. He expects it to be hard to fall to sleep with all the heavy thoughts floating around his brain, but the night has taken a toll on him. The adrenaline from the fireworks has faded, his breathing has steadied, and he’s finally gotten his hands to stop shaking. The last thing Jaskier truly registers before he’s pulled under is the quiet shifting of Geralt settling into a comfortable position behind him.

…

Geralt can’t take his eyes off the bard. Not at first.

He can’t stop looking at how still Jaskier is. Would he have looked like that in death? Would Geralt have come back with firewood to find Jaskier curled up, fast asleep, unaware of the truth until he tried to rouse him in the morning? He shifts into a better position, one where he can see Jaskier’s face, and stares at the tear tracks illuminated by the last of the dying embers. Geralt has never seen Jaskier cry before, not even in his worst despondent bouts.

He knew something was wrong, but he wasn’t prepared for this.

Realistically, Geralt is aware that Jaskier was never in any danger. Not from the potion, at least. He’d identified it right away, as soon as he smelled it, but the scent of nightshade threw his rationality out the window. All he could picture was the light fading out of Jaskier’s bright blue eyes, and he’d wanted to scare the other man, just as he himself had been scared The potion would’ve dropped Jaskier into an unreachable sleep, more coma than slumber, but it was easily fixed with a simple counter potion. Geralt has seen it used to put grievously wounded men into a peaceful sleep while their bodies healed. Despite its dangerous ingredients, the potion itself is safe.

But Jaskier hadn’t known that.

It’s obvious that Jaskier thought the potion would kill him. The smaller man had seemed surprised when Geralt told him the vial contained nightshade, however faint the traces may have been. Surprised, but not frightened. He hadn’t protested when Geralt told him that he would’ve died.

_Find him. Run._

Yennefer’s words float back to him again. He wants to be angry with her. He wants to shake her and ask what the fuck she was thinking, giving something like that to Jaskier, implying that it would prove fatal, but the truth is, he understands. Geralt himself would never do something like that, but that would be the point, would it not?

Geralt and Jaskier had been at an impasse; neither one of them were reaching out to the other, and Jaskier was suffering for it. He’s assuming Yennefer told Jaskier that drinking the potion would be a quick and painless way to leave this life, ensuring that it would be the first thing the bard turned to if the inclination ever struck him. It would’ve sent him into that unawakenable state, not dead but not responsive, and Geralt would’ve found him that way, even without the alarm she’d placed on the stopper. There would have been no way for Jaskier to get out of that conversation after the antidote was administered, just as Geralt won’t allow him to brush this one off either. 

Despite the low stakes, Geralt is incredibly relieved that the potion wasn’t consumed.

He cannot thank Yennefer for this, not yet, but one day he thinks he will find himself grateful. She’d forced their hands, pushed them into a confrontation. It’s obvious now that Yennefer had guessed at Jaskier’s intentions as soon as Geralt had told her about the blood. He remembers the scars on her wrists, and the way she’d mentioned shared experiences. It could have been a lot worse had she not given him what she did. There are many ways to end one’s life.

Like a dagger, for instance.

He waits until he’s absolutely sure that Jaskier’s asleep before silently rising and moving over to Jaskier’s bag several step away. Geralt quietly removes the sheathed blade and tucks it into his own belt, then returns to his spot at the edge of Jaskier’s bedroll. The tension is starting to bleed out of Jaskier’s body, finally, though he stays curled tightly on his side. Geralt is glad that sunrise is still many hours away. He needs to think.

Absently, he runs his thumb over the smooth hilt of the dagger tucked against his body. Jaskier has been hurting himself, and Geralt hadn’t done a fucking thing to stop it. He’d had his suspicions, but it hadn’t seemed like enough to warrant action. He should have trusted his gut. It hasn’t escaped his notice that he started smelling the blood directly after gifting the blade to Jaskier. Guilt eats away at his chest. Fuck, he’d been trying to _help,_ but all he did was make things worse.

He will not make that mistake again. 

Geralt should try to sleep, given that he’s on a hunt, but instead he sits there and watches the dying embers, only moving to make more room for Jaskier as he shifts in his sleep. Geralt must’ve reached something like a meditative state, because the next time he’s aware of himself, a watery dawn is breaking.

He rises to tend to Roach. She knickers softly at him as he reaches into her saddlebag and pulls out a few apples. It isn’t much, but the horse had grazed last night and if luck is on their side, they’ll be back in Vellweir in three or four days’ time. 

They should get moving, but Geralt finds himself stalling. He kicks plenty of dirt over their firepit, despite it having gone cold hours ago, and rolls his unused bedroll into a tight bundle. As the sun gets higher, though, he runs of out reasons to let Jaskier sleep, so he crouches down and shakes him slightly.

“Up. Time to get moving.” He says, then steps away to let the other man blink himself awake.

They’re ready to leave moments later. The path they’re taking is narrow and filled with loose stones and shallow pits, so Geralt finds a secure, out of the way place with plenty of grass to tie Roach’s lead to.

“Stay, girl,” he murmurs, “I’ll be back in a few days.” The horse’s ears go back and she gives him a look that could be interpreted as ‘you’d better be’. Geralt and Jaskier take their bags and bedrolls, Geralt shoulders his crossbow, and they move on.

It isn’t quiet for long. Jaskier is walking slightly behind him, messing with the contents of his bag. “Where’s my dagger, Geralt?” The Witcher braces himself. He knows the exact moment Jaskier sees it hanging from Geralt’s hip. “Did you _take_ it?”

“Why do you need it?” Geralt asks. He keeps his eyes trained on the trail, constantly vigilant.

“What do you mean, why do I need it? We’re hunting a _werewolf,_ in case you’ve forgotten. You’re the one that gave me the fucking thing in the first place, and now that there’s a chance I might actually need to use it, you’ve got it tucked away with the million other weapons you have. Brilliant strategy.”

“You won’t need it.” Geralt assures him. “It’s steel, anyway, so it wouldn’t do you any good against a werewolf. It has to be silver.”

Jaskier scoffs, “Well, forgive me for trying to be prepared for once. Besides, that was a gift, remember? You can’t just take it back because you feel like it.” Jaskier quickens his pace until he’s walking at Geralt’s side. “I’m serious, Geralt, give it back.”

“No.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. _Really?_ Is this about last night, because if so-“

“Of _course_ this is about last night,” Geralt snarls and turns to face the bard. “What else would it be about? You were trying to kill yourself, Jaskier. I’m not going to give you a second shot at it.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself!” Jaskier protests immediately, and withers slightly under Geralt’s angry and incredulous look. “I told you, I just wanted to see if I could tell what was in it. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t.”

Geralt crowds into Jaskier’s space, serious as the grave, and says, “Look me in the eyes and tell me you weren’t going to use it. Look at me and tell me you haven’t been using that dagger to hurt yourself.” Jaskier’s eyes widen in alarm. “I didn’t know at the time, but I could smell it, Jaskier. I spent _weeks_ trying to figure out where you were hurt, wondering how I could have missed it, and you were doing it to yourself.”

He reaches out and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. He’s almost pleading. “Stop lying to me. Tell me what’s wrong, why this is happening. Give me the chance to help.”

There’s a far away look in Jaskier’s eyes, but he nods quietly after a moment and starts walking again, letting Geralt’s hand slip off his shoulder. The Witcher follows along and waits.

“This just sort of… happens, sometimes.” Jaskier says eventually. “I don’t know what causes it, but I’ll wake up one day and it’ll be like all the color has been sucked out of the world. It’s hard to explain, really. I’ve never… I’ve never talked about it before. I think my mother went through something similar, but I never had the chance to ask.” He laughs a little, but it lacks humor. “I don’t know what to say. Imagine that- me, running out of words.”

“Pretend you’re telling a story.” Geralt suggests. “It’s no different than one of your songs. Take the truth and turn it into something you’re willing to share.”

“That’s…not a terrible idea. Hm.” 

Geralt glances at the bard from the corner of his eye. He looks deep in thought, but also incredibly self-conscious, like he expects to be mocked. He used to tell Jaskier that they weren’t friends all the time. Regret tastes terrible.

“All of a sudden your flaws seem to be the only things defining who you are.” Jaskier starts after a while. “The good things don’t matter, because the bad things outweigh them. I think too deeply about little things that shouldn’t make a difference. There are so many terrible things happening in the world; I feel so small, unable to do anything about it, and it’s impossible to find joy in life when all you can focus on is how you’re suffering. After a while I start to wonder what the point is.” 

Here Jaskier hesitates. Geralt pretends he doesn’t see the bard watching him. “I follow you around even when you tell me not to, I never shut the fuck up, my singing…well, I’m not going there. But travelling with you is one of the only times that I feel like I’m doing something good. Something worth singing about. I don’t stay in one place for too long because seeing the beauties of the world helps to put things in perspective, and…and seeing them with you makes all the bad things feel worthwhile.”

The bard must see the stricken look on Geralt’s face, because he quickly continues with, “It goes away eventually, after a while. I usually snap out of it after a couple of weeks, but sometimes it’s a bit more…persistent.”

Geralt stops again. At this rate they’ll never reach the area the werewolf was last spotted in, but that isn’t important. Not like this. “You should have told me,” he says quietly. The amount of trust and vulnerability in Jaskier’s eyes is nearly overwhelming. He cannot mess this up. He refuses to. “I’ve never felt fear as strong as when I saw those sparks go up. Yennefer warned me to watch for them, but she didn’t tell me why, and seeing you there with that bottle robbed me of my senses. Thinking that I could have come back and found you…

“I am glad that you’re with me. I am glad that you’re my friend. But you cannot lie to me. Not about this. I’m sorry that I made you feel like you couldn’t come to me, and that I don’t enjoy your presence. I’ve missed hearing you sing, and complain about the rain, and I’ve missed teasing you about the colors you dress yourself in. Black doesn’t suit you.” 

“I-uh, ahem. Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly. There are tears pooling in his eyes, and Geralt finds that the sight causes his own heart to ache. “That truly means a lot to me.” He blinks heavily, clearing away the tears, and gives Geralt a watery smile. “Now, aren’t we meant to be hunting something?”

Geralt smiles in return and shoves Jaskier lightly. “I’m meant to be hunting something, yes.”

“Oh shut up, you just admitted that you like having me around. I’m definitely allowed to say _we.”_

…

They stop to make camp just before sunset, along the flat bank of a deep stream. They covered about as much distance as Geralt had expected, which should put them around five miles from where the lord’s sons had been attacked. If the creature is in the area, it will likely remain near the site of its last successful hunt, especially if it had tasted human meat for the first time the month before.

Geralt explains all this while he checks the edges of his silver sword and various knives. With no small amount of trepidation, he hands one of the littler silver blades to Jaskier. He doesn’t say that he’s trusting him, and to please be careful, but he thinks Jaskier understands by the way he solemnly nods and fastens the sheath to his belt.

“What’s the plan now?” Jaskier asks as the light fades from the sky. “Does it have to be midnight or something, or will it start howling and growling as soon as the sun sets?”

Geralt grunts and sets the crossbow to test the sights. “It could be running around already.”

Jaskier whips around with wide eyes. “You mean now? But it’s still light outside, I thought it had to be night or something.” The bard shivers slightly and his eyes dart around. The setting sun casts dark and spindly shadows through the trees. “I don’t like that. That’s not how the stories go.”

“Myths and legends are embellished to make them easier to swallow; I thought you would’ve known that. Werewolves are strongest during the full moon, but that’s not necessarily the only time they transform. In truth, they could revert to their beast form every night of the month, though that’s not common.” Geralt explains patiently. He enjoys the way Jaskier is honestly curious about the monsters he hunts. Most people just want to see the head, pay him his coin, and pray they never see a Witcher again. 

“Uh huh. And you’re absolutely sure you can kill it?” Geralt gives him a withering look and Jaskier raises his hands in surrender. “Alright! I was just checking, jeesh.”

Dusk has fallen. “Wait here.” Geralt tells Jaskier seriously. “Keep your back to the stream and don’t draw attention to yourself. If all goes well, I should be back before sunrise. If not, go back to Roach and ride to Vellweir. Don’t stop for anything.”

Jaskier nods, but mutters, “I’m not going to leave you,” under his breath. Geralt lets it go and prepares to step further into the forest.

In hindsight, Geralt really should have seen it coming. They were the only two people stupid enough to be that far into the wilderness with the weather turning cold and quickly promising snow, and being near a water source makes them ideal prey.

The smell hits him first. He has only enough time to snarl, “Get down!” as a massive shadow lunges forward from the tree line, and then it’s on him.

Jaskier screams something. Geralt is slammed into the ground under the crushing weight of the beast and narrowly avoids getting his face ripped off. It roars its displeasure and the sickening smell of carrion assaults his senses.

Claws tear at his armor, rending deep scratches into the leather. They don’t break through. Geralt yells in return and throws a fist at the beast’s face. It yelps and staggers back. Geralt grunts and rolls to his feet. 

A silver blade is in his hand in an instant. A claw swipes at his chest, narrowly missing, and Geralt goes on the offensive before the werewolf can regain its footing. Blood sprays from the wound he opens on its hairy arm and the scream it releases sets his ears to ringing.

It’s big. It stands taller and packs more mass than Geralt, but that makes it slower. If he could just get behind it, he could pull his sword and take its head. 

A heavy limb catches Geralt in the stomach and drives the breath out of him. He doesn’t allow himself to falter, using the opportunity to cut a gaping slash along its abdomen. It howls and hunches slightly. 

Geralt takes the chance he’s given and slips underneath the outstretched arm and moves behind the beast. The early thrill of victory sings in his veins as he reaches back to pull his sword from its sheath, until the werewolf releases a primal roar of rage and springs forward.

Straight towards Jaskier. 

Everything seems to slow down and speed up at once. The werewolf reaches out and hits Jaskier across the chest with a wet, dull thud, and the bard drops. Geralt’s fingers are on the trigger of the crossbow. He doesn’t remember grabbing it. The silver tip of the bolt gleams brightly in the light of the rising moon. Geralt fires right as it plunges its head forward to sink its teeth into Jaskier’s stomach. There’s a sick pop as the bolt goes in one side and protrudes from the other.

It staggers to the left and Jaskier shuffles away on his back. Geralt loads another bolt, pulls the mechanism back with a blank rage, and fires again. The second bolt tears into the beast’s heart. It gurgles wetly, whines, and crashes to the ground. It’s dying. Geralt grunts, pulls back a third bolt, and hits it again. The body jerks, then lies still.

He stands there for a heavy moment, waiting to see if it will move again, but it doesn’t. Geralt throws the crossbow to the ground and rushes over to where Jaskier lays, gasping and bleeding.

“Oh fuck, _fuck,_ Geralt, it hurts, am I dying? I don’t want to die, please don’t let me die.” He babbles. The front of his tunic is slashed in three places and soaked in blood. Geralt wastes no time and rips the fabric wide open.

They’re ugly wounds, but not fatal. The tight knot in his belly doesn’t relax. The deepest of the cuts runs from three inches below his right collarbone all the way to the end of his ribcage on the left. The second one barely missed his left nipple, and the last is nothing more than a scratch along his right side leading down into his belly. If it had struck any lower, Jaskier’s entrails would be on the ground with him.

Geralt tears a large swatch of cloth from the bard’s ruined shirt and presses it hard against the largest wound. Jaskier emits a thin scream of pain and tries to arch away from the touch. Geralt pins him to the ground by his shoulder and says, “You’re not going to die. _Jaskier,_ look at me. You’re going to have some nasty scars but you’re not going to die. I promise.”

If Jaskier registers his words he doesn’t show it. His eyes dart around as if he’s waiting for the werewolf to rear up and try to finish the job, and his hands come up to circle Geralt’s wrist where it presses against his chest. “I’m sorry about the potion and- and everything, I don’t want to die, I didn’t mean it, Geralt, _please.”_

He can’t stand hearing Jaskier cry out like this. He lets go of Jaskier’s shoulder and quickly forms the sign for _Axii,_ slumping along with Jaskier as the magic does its work and eases the bard’s mind. The fabric beneath his palm is warm with fresh blood, and the adrenaline still running through his veins heightens the coppery smell of it. Geralt never wants to smell Jaskier’s blood ever again.

“You with me?” Geralt asks, then checks the wounds. The bleeding has slowed considerably. Thank fuck for small miracles. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier replies, slightly dazed. “Did you do your witchery on me?”

Geralt laughs a little to himself. “I did.”

“Good, cause that really fucking hurt.”

He hums instead of replying and looks around for Jaskier’s bag. It lays forgotten on the ground, just barely out of the water. Geralt brings Jaskier’s hands up to hold pressure against his chest while Geralt roots through the pack, looking for suture and bandages. It’s well stocked.

“Hey,” Jaskier frowns, watching him. “That stuff is supposed to be for you, not me.”

“Well, don’t get hurt and I won’t need to use it.” He’s only half joking. Geralt takes the suture and lays it on Jaskier’s belly so he can remove the makeshift bandage. “Lay back and don’t move. You’re not going to want to watch this.”

“You can’t blame me for this one, I did exactly what you told me to do.” Jaskier complains, lifting his head and wincing at the sight of the thread. “This is absolutely disgusting. Am-am I going to feel it? While you stitch me up?”

Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s forehead and gently presses his head back down. “You might feel some of it.” He says, and starts in on the middle gash before Jaskier can try to weasel his way out of it. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t react to the needle piercing his flesh.

Jaskier stays as still as he can as Geralt threads the suture through the wound by moonlight. He’s halfway through the second cut when shivers start wracking Jaskier’s body, from the combination of shock and the dropping temperature. Jaskier squirms slightly as the curved needle goes through the sensitive skin along his ribs, so Geralt soothes him by briefly laying a gentle hand on his stomach. “Almost done.”

The shirt is completely ruined, so after he ties off the last stitch Geralt carefully helps Jaskier sit up and pulls the remains of the cloth away. As he winds a roll of cotton around the bard’s body, his sharp eyes pick out the clutter of shallow, scabbed over cuts littering the upper parts of Jaskier’s newly bared forearms. Something primal in him wails at having allowed that to happen. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier murmurs, “I’m really tired. That’s normal, right? I’m not going to fall asleep and not wake up again?”

Geralt pulls Jaskier to his feet and wraps the bard’s arm around his shoulders. “I will never let that happen.” He tells him seriously. The double meaning is clear.

He doesn’t have the patience to set up a proper camp, and he refuses to leave Jaskier alone to gather firewood, so Geralt helps Jaskier to the ground several yards away from the body of the werewolf and lays out his own bedroll and blankets. He roughly unbuckles his armor and lets it hit the ground in an untidy heap to be dealt with tomorrow.

“Come here,” he murmurs to Jaskier as he settles down into the thick furs. “It’s cold.”

They’ve shared a bed before, and have slept curled together in the forest when the temperatures dropped too low for Jaskier’s human body to tolerate, so the bard doesn’t hesitate to shimmy underneath the raised blanket, carefully laying on his back. The bare skin of his chest and stomach is covered in goosebumps. Geralt lays an arm low across his belly and pulls him closer. He can tell that Jaskier’s next shiver has nothing to do with the cold.

He is content to lay there in the dark and listen to Jaskier’s heartbeat. He is laying on his side, nose tucked into the curve of Jaskier’s neck, and it’s second nature to breathe deeply and take in his scent. The bard’s heart rate kicks up and Geralt smiles.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Jaskier whispers. His eyes are open, staring up at the night sky and the full moon that hangs in it.

“Thank you for letting me take care of you,” he replies softly. His fingers wander and find the raised texture of the healing cuts on Jaskier’s arm. “This will not happen again.” Geralt tells him gently but firmly.

“Sometimes I need a reminder that I can still recover from something.” If Geralt didn’t have enhanced hearing, he wouldn’t have heard the words. It doesn’t escape his notice that Jaskier didn’t agree. That’s okay. They’ll work on it. He knows what to watch for now.

“You’ll come to me if you feel that way.” This time it’s an unmistakable order. Jaskier shivers again. In a different situation, Geralt would pursue it, that delicious hint of lust he smells, but it is neither the time nor the place. “I will not lose you. Not to any monster, and not to yourself.”

A tear slides down Jaskier’s face towards his hair. Geralt reaches up and gently brushes it away. “This…this doesn’t go away, Geralt. Not for good.” 

Geralt hums. Jaskier’s eyes are starting to slide shut. “We’ll deal with that when it comes.”

The bard makes a small noise of acknowledgement before his eyes drift shut and don’t open again. Geralt brushes his fingers lightly along the muscles of Jaskier’s abdomen as his breathing evens out and the pained look slips from his face.

Geralt watches him quietly. Having Jaskier in danger two nights in a row is too much. Too many close calls. He needs to sleep. The stink of the werewolf’s blood will keep any potential predators far away from their little camp, so Geralt allows himself to relax against the warmth coming from the other man. 

This is precious to him. He knows that he can’t keep Jaskier safe all the time, not completely, not with what he does, but he will not make the mistake of waiting for the other man to approach him again. There is no magic fix for this, but Geralt vows to protect what is his, no matter the cost. 

There is still a lot to be done. They need to come down from the mountains. He needs to behead the werewolf and carve out its heart to be sold. They need to get back to Roach. He’ll need to watch for signs of infection and change the bandage often, but those are all problems for tomorrow. For now, he presses his face deeper into Jaskier’s neck and allows the steady beating of the other’s heart lull him to sleep.

They’ll be okay. Geralt will make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support. I can't believe I actually finished something. 
> 
> I believe Yennefer would be adamant about Jaskier being free to make his own choice in a controlled environment. She wouldn't have put him in danger, but instead opened up the opportunity for someone to help him while allowing him to decide on his own terms. In a way, she takes his choice by giving him a choice, if that makes sense.
> 
> I'd like to say that your mental health issues don't define who you are. Recovery is the norm, not the exception. One day you will be okay, even if you aren't right now. I love you.


End file.
